Page 2 of Nuts

I’m giving myself to you because I trust you.

Be careful with me, please.

You’re my first.

Chapter One

Joey

I heard the heels of his boots on the tile floor long before he came into my line of sight. With my hope of sneaking out before he woke now crushed, I glanced toward the sound of his heavy footsteps.

Just inside the kitchen door, he paused and rubbed the stubble on his unshaven jaw. Still wearing the prior night’s jeans and grease-stained tee shirt, he looked like living hell. His closely cropped hair and muscular build made confusing him with the Marine’s stationed at Camp Pendleton easy, but he’d been out of the military for six years. His mind, however, was still at war with someone or something.

He fixed his tired eyes on mine. “You need to find a better job,” he said, his voice dry and raspy. “You’re not living here for god damned ever. You need to--”

My stepfather was impossible to reason with. When he was sober, arguing came a little easier, but still exposed me to the risk of revealing his red-hot temper. Nonetheless, I took the chance and interrupted him mid-sentence.

“It’s not like I’m lying around doing nothing,” I carried my cereal bowl to the kitchen sink. “I’ve got a great job, it’s just not good enough to support me. Yet.”

“This food’s not free. All this shit cost money. The lights, the water, the mortgage. Money I work hard for. How in the fuck am I ever going to retire if you stay here for fucking ever? I can’t afford to have you mooching off me for a lifetime.”

Finding a job that would support me wasn’t an easy task, especially with the high cost of living in southern California. It was frustrating and I was embarrassed, but it didn’t change the fact that for the time being I was barely making more than the minimum wage. I wanted to leave him and his violent outbursts more than anything, but if I could somehow double my income, I still wouldn’t be able to support myself.

I glanced over my shoulder. “I bought the cereal.”

“You put milk on it, didn’t you?”

“I paid for it, too.”

“Working at the parts counter of the fucking Harley dealer isn’t going to get you anywhere. I haven’t said anything for a while, but it’s high time you get where you can stand on your own two feet.”

My face washed with skepticism. I turned to face him. “Haven’t said anything for a while?” I couldn’t help myself. A laugh escaped me. “You bitched me out last weekend. Pulled the covers off me at two o’clock in the morning, screaming. Remember that? Probably not. Too drunk, huh?”

His jaw went tight. It was seven o’clock in the morning, and I’d already hit a nerve.

His eyes thinned. “Don’t you dare call me a drunk.”

He clenched his fists and took a step in my direction.

Planning my path of escape, I glanced to my left. “If you so much as touch me,” I warned. “I swear, I’ll call the cops.”

“You’re not going to talk to me like that, no matter how old you are. One of these days you’re going to learn to respect me, so help me god.”

He may have been my stepfather and guardian, but I’d never respect him. Having grown up without a mother more years than I did with one, it would stand to reason that I’d be attached to him. That we’d have developed a meaningful relationship, something that may even resemble a friendship. His drinking, however, brought on unpredictable acts of violence that prevented it.

Each time it happened, he later apologized.

But, nothing changed. He was who he was, and despite my begging that he quit drinking, he never so much as tried.

He took a few stumbling steps toward me. We’d been in enough fights that I knew what was next. A wad of my hair in his clenched fist and the back of his hand against my cheek for starters.

His weary eyes and awkward sense of balance told me he was either nursing a serious hangover or that he was still drunk. I took a step to my right, and he staggered in that direction. As soon as he did, I took off in a dead run to my left.

In a few long strides, I was in the living room. As I rushed past the couch, I snatched my purse off the end table and headed for the front door. Halfway down the sidewalk my pace slowed to a brisk walk. I knew from experience that he wouldn’t dare come outside. At least for the time being, I was safe.

While I fumbled to find my keys, I glanced over the top of my car. Sitting cross-legged in the driveway with a wrench in his hand, my neighbor glared at his motorcycle as if it had done something wrong.

Since he moved into the neighborhood seven years past, I’d been fascinated by him and his obnoxiously loud motorcycle. Most of the people on the block viewed him and Harley as annoying, but I didn’t share their opinions.